Words for the Weary

Do less and call it a win.

I’m tired. Really tired.

Not newborn-at-home tired. More like “I swear I told you that” and “where are my earbuds for the fifth time today?” tired. Distracted, maybe, or even fatigued?

Weary, for sure.

When I talk to clients, my children, or myself, I try to start with curiosity: What’s contributing to this state right now?

It’s a small question, but it shifts something important. Research on self-compassion shows that when we approach ourselves with curiosity instead of criticism, our nervous system settles. Fatigue becomes information, not judgment.

So I scanned the landscape.

Sleep: inconsistent.
Nutrition: Hmm.
Household routine: herky-jerky.
Existential backdrop: 2026 is competing in the Chaos Olympics, and it feels like the medal podium is at the end of my driveway.

We’ve had winter illnesses. A brief blip of spring and then a plunge back into gray cold weather. Sunday scaries most nights of the week. Not to mention the upheaval of regular life in Minneapolis as we continue to navigate the impact of the Metro Surge.

If stress were Bingo, I’d be one square from blackout.

Last night, 50% of our children were gone at friends’ houses, hopefully not arguing about dishes. That left a rare 1:1 ratio with our two youngest. Dinner. Dog walk. And then — a strange pocket of nothing.

I considered being Intentional Craft Mom.

A shudder ripped through my body.

I considered laundry.

Hardly got it out of my head without gagging.

Not to be dramatic.

So I wandered the first floor collecting enough semi-dirty glasses to justify a dishwasher cycle. I nibbled leftover birthday dessert — it wasn’t a full serving, because nibble math is zero. Duh.

Then I made eye contact with the puzzle table I got for Christmas. It spins! It has drawers! And it has been waiting patiently for its turn, like Pepper at the crack of my tuna can.

“Okay,” I told myself. “Here we go.”

I chose the complicated puzzle first — the one with decoy edges designed to humble you. I stared at the pieces. Stared at the picture. Picked up a piece. Stared again.

My brain felt like the pile of jagged cardboard in front of me.

Cognitive load theory tells us that when our mental bandwidth is taxed, even simple tasks feel disproportionately hard. The task isn’t the problem. Capacity is.

“Another time,” I said, scooping the pieces back into the box.

That wasn’t quitting. It was calibration. I’m a goddamn self-compassion guru, after all.

I tried a smaller puzzle. Fewer pieces. Clear edges. A woodsy fantasy scene with inexplicable dolphins. When the pieces hit the table, the sound landed like fourth-grade recorders practicing “Hot Cross Buns.” (IYKYK)

Nope.

Back in the box.

I could have powered through. Or scrolled instead. Or criticized myself for lacking follow-through.

But behavioral psychology tells us something simple: when activation energy is low, the answer isn’t intensity. It’s reduction.

So I scaled again.

Upstairs. Pajamas. Brush teeth. Wash face.

That was the win.

Not because it was impressive. Because it matched capacity — even if, at this moment, my capacity approximates the sum of nibbles: zero.

We tend to believe getting “back on track” requires a sweeping reset — the full kitchen clean, the workout, the meal plan, the creative breakthrough.

But when you’re tired-tired, the nervous system doesn’t respond to force. It responds to safety.

Sometimes the most regulated decision is to stop.

To say:

Not this.
Not tonight.
Let’s go smaller.

Less thinking.
And just enough action to match the energy you actually have.